


Oasis

by tarysande



Series: Rose Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s looking at her like she’s a goddess and damn the sacrilege he’s going to worship her. Damn the sacrilege, she’s going to let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oasis

It’s broken glass and scattered papers, the bittersharp scent of spilled wine, the desk beneath her back harder than a bed but still perfect because it’s not her imagination filling in details. He’s looking at her like she’s a goddess and damn the sacrilege he’s going to worship her. Damn the sacrilege, she’s going to let him.

The first kisses are frantic ones, his hand on her breast still gloved, their bodies pressed together still fully clothed. Months of stolen kisses and hand-holding and tender embraces and thinking of him (alone in her bed, alone in her tent, her own fingers too slender, swallowing her cries lest anyone hear her wanting wanting wanting) have been drops of water to a woman dying of thirst, and this at last the oasis she’s been stumbling toward for so long.

He braces himself, one hand beside her head, and slides his thigh between her legs. She presses herself against the muscular plane of him, hard. Harder. She does not bother trying to swallow her groan. This clothed contact is better than her own desperate fingers have been these past months, but it’s still not enough. The groan shifts to a whimper. Maybe she says _more_ , but she’s not sure. His forehead rests against hers, his free hand curls gently against the side of her neck. Maybe he’s praying or pleading; she feels the breath of his words but can make no sense of them. She bucks against his thigh, hands clutching the fur at his shoulders— _closer closer more more_ —and falls to pieces without realizing she was close. He catches her cry with his lips, drinks it down.

They remain that way, breathing together, until her heartbeat slows and she can understand words again. She says, “Cullen.” She says, “Please.”

He seems to take her meaning, however, as he pauses to shuck off his mantle. It takes her no effort at all to disrobe and she sits on the edge of his desk, smirking, as he struggles with his many layers.

He blushes such a lovely color. A woman could have worse ambitions than teasing that tint from him on a daily basis.

She’s never seen anyone unbuckle armor so fast. His breastplate clangs as it hits the stone floor, and the sheepish smile he sends over his shoulder—so like a recruit who knows he’s about to be justly chastised—makes her laugh. Then he laughs, too, and they’re naked, clambering up his ladder because even a hard bed under a roof of questionable protection is better than having to explain to the surgeon why she’s got a hundred splinters in her backside.

Though she has visible proof how much he wants her, and how physically unsatisfied their adventure on his desk has left him, he still stops before joining her on the bed. “This is what you want?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “You?”

He nods, his smile so tender her breath catches. The mattress dips as he settles himself next to her.

She can count on her fingers how many times she’s felt his bare hands against her skin. She revels in it now. The wild energy has ebbed, leaving curiosity in its place. Like an explorer scouting a new land, he takes his time, skating fingertips over her shoulders, down her ribs—she laughs; it’s ticklish—and along the backs of her thighs. He lingers at her knees, running his knuckles against the soft flesh until she thinks she’ll go mad with the sensation of it. His years of training have left his hands calloused, but not rough. She loves his hands, loves how she can feel not only the strength in them, but the way he restrains himself. She arches under that touch, begging for more, but still he waits, explores, teases. One finger enters her slowly and she groans, greedy. Though they don’t yet know all her secrets, his fingers already bring her to another brink. She cannot anticipate what they will do. The mystery of it intoxicates her.

Opening her eyes to plead with him, the words catch in her throat when she sees the way he’s looking at her, so unguarded. So instead of begging, she says, “May I?”

He looks confused for a moment, and with the slightest pressure of her fingertips to his shoulder, she switches their positions. (Sera’s words ring in her head, no matter how much she tries to banish them. _Woman over him, woman over him._ ) She’s seen him naked before—half Skyhold saw him naked after that game of Wicked Grace—but not like this. She has permission to touch, now. Permission to kiss each of the scars, permission to lick the dips and divots and cords of muscle with the flat of her tongue. The slightest softness clings to his belly; testament to too much time spent behind his desk. Somehow she loves this softness best of all, this proof he’s so dedicated to her cause. She trails kisses from his ribcage to his pubic bone. His cock twitches at every touch, but he does not plead, does not rush her.

She loves this too.

He says (gasps), “May I?”

She says (gasps), “Anything.”

He does not ask for the moons on a necklace, or a golden leaf from a silver tree, or Calenhad the Great’s sword, though she’d have twisted herself in knots to provide them. He only switches their positions again, and follows with his mouth the same path his fingers and palms and knuckles had taken before. Like a good tactician, he applies the knowledge his finger spies had discovered for him earlier.

She thinks she will die when, this time, his fingers and tongue work in glorious concert. For a moment—one foolish moment—she wants to be as restrained as he, wants to prove she can wait as he’s been waiting, but then his fingers stroke and his tongue seeks, and the scratch of his stubble catches the skin of her inner thigh and instead of waiting she only screams, and does not care who hears her.

She says, “Please.”

He says nothing at all, guiding himself into her. He freezes instead of thrusting, instead of moving. “Oh,” he says. “I—Maker. _Maker_.”

Arching her back brings them closer, and his eyes flutter shut, lips parted but voiceless. She does not set too rapid a pace; it will all end too soon. He is frayed around the edges, still holding tight, still holding holding holding. She tightens herself around him, but does not move. He will fall to pieces if she moves, and she knows he’s not ready. He moves again after a dozen heartbeats; she reciprocates after a dozen more. She kisses his throat, runs her tongue along his collarbone, nibbles at the muscle of his shoulder. He gasps when she turns a kiss into a hard suck, leaving a mark against the pale flesh of his chest, and he groans when she then soothes the resulting red mark with kisses.

She feels the pace change, feels when he bids the last of his restraint a farewell, and she rises to meet his every thrust until every movement is a blur and she cannot tell who initiates and who reacts. _More_ she thinks or says or merely feels—it no longer matters— _more more more_.

He calls her name and clutches her close as he finally lets go—finally finally—and she follows him over the edge of the waterfall, digging her fingers into his shoulders, burying her face in the warmth of him. He trembles in her arms, trembles, his lips murmuring a litany of lazy kisses against her hair and her cheek and her bare shoulder. “You’re—” he says. “That was—” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees, and they fall asleep curled together. She dreams of water, and wakes knowing the word love is the only word that fits.


End file.
